Should Morning Burn
by Chasing Liquor
Summary: A temporal anomaly pulls the NX-01 Enterprise out of a pivotal battle and into the future. Its arrival triggers an alternate timeline, where Starfleet is engaged in a hopeless war against the Romulan Empire. Kirk/Hoshi, Uhura/Trip, Chekov, Scott, McCoy
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer**: If I owned the copyright, I'd be writing the sequel, not fan fiction. And if I was illegally using the copyright, I'd... be trying to sell this. Neither of those scenarios is occurring.

**Summary**: A temporal anomaly pulls a devastated NX-01 Enterprise out of a pivotal battle and into the future. Its arrival triggers an alternate timeline, where Kirk's Enterprise and Starfleet are engaged in a hopeless war against the Romulan Star Empire. Kirk, Chekov, Uhura, Trip Tucker, John Archer, Hoshi Sato, T'Pol.

**Author's Note**: This story was, not shockingly, inspired by the Next Generation episode, "Yesterday's Enterprise." I was fascinated by the idea of the reboot crew meeting their counterparts from the previous century, and finally decided to put it to paper. For those of you who are new to Trek by way of this movie, I'm optimistic you'll be able to follow and enjoy this.

And a side note -- while I appreciate all the trouble I see people go to to represent Chekov's accent in other stories, I find myself frustrated trying to decipher the phonetic spellings. Subsequently, I only sparingly represent his thick accent in the spelling of his dialogue, so as to make for easier reading.

Please let me know what you think -- positivity, negativity, confusion, suggestions -- in the form of a review. I'd greatly appreciate it.

Thanks, and I hope you enjoy.

* * *

**Should Morning Burn**

* * *

Stars flickered past in their hypnotic way. If he unfocused his eyes, it looked as if he was rushing toward them, out past the metal and glass and into the wild deep. How far he felt, and was, from all the days of whiskey breath and from the man who blew it. It wasn't bad for nineteen.

Chekov glanced up a moment later, into the cool eyes of a vague acquaintance.

"Ambassador T'Pol," he greeted, his accent mangling the name. When she didn't say anything, he quickly stood in an act of belated chivalry. "Forgive me! Would you like to sit down?"

The Vulcan arched an eyebrow – at what, he couldn't say – but accepted his invitation gingerly.

He'd have sworn he heard her bones creak as she settled into the chair. But he supposed she looked well, at least for someone who'd lived for the better part of two centuries. Her hands showed the most age, palms covered in coarse white lines indicative of a life spent earning something, and though bending and arthritic, he didn't doubt their will to choke the life from someone if the situation called for it.

"You are Ensign Chekov?"

His eyes flicked up to meet hers.

"I – yes, yes," he stammered, smiling.

"I was told you will be overseeing supply delivery to the Vulcan colony."

She was all business, not surprisingly, and her tone straightened out his back. Despite the comfortable chair and the food in front of him, this felt terribly official.

"That's right, ma'am. Is there any problem?"

T'Pol studied him a moment, letting the question linger, and then she shook her head curtly.

"No. I simply wished to reiterate to you the importance of the endeavor."

"There is no need," Chekov said, flashing a grin so wide and so bright that, on any other face, it might have seemed patronizing. "Attention to detail is my finest attribute. It is in the DNA of all Russians."

T'Pol arched an eyebrow again, the hair there mostly silver.

"Your nationalism is illogical. Is Russia not part of Earth, and Earth not of the Federation?"

"Of course I am proud to be from Earth!" Chekov insisted, voice full of vigor. "But the history in one's past is as important as the history they make. I am simply recognizing mine for what it is: the finest of human civilization."

When T'Pol's mouth quirked at one side, more daring a display than he'd ever seen from Spock, he was certain that she'd have laughed if the act weren't alien to her. And something about that was precious to him.

"Regardless of your erroneous beliefs about the content of your deoxyribonucleic acid," she said, "I am satisfied that you will treat the matter with the attention it deserves."

She was already pushing her chair back to stand, the matter resolved in her logical mind, when Chekov's voice stopped her.

"Ambassador," he beseeched her, eyes bright, "do you have a few moments?"

Her rheumatic hands paused in the air, his entreaty no doubt surprising her, and it was a moment before she inclined her head in the affirmative, settling back into her chair. He watched her face crinkle at the slight effort it took. He hoped he didn't live to experience age in that way.

"Would you mind if I asked you something?"

"About Enterprise," she surmised.

He smiled sheepishly and nodded.

"I will tell you what I know."

It was a simple kindness, to answer questions about one's own past, but to him it was such a blissful thing that he actually felt his heart flutter.

"You worked with Admiral Archer," he said.

"For many years."

"Some say he was like my Captain."

"And how is your Captain?" T'Pol asked, genuinely curious.

"He is…" The boy paused, smiling slightly. "He is the bravest man I've ever known."

She looked thoughtful for a time, and then she nodded.

"Then yes. They are correct in that assessment."

If she was honest, she felt affection for the subsequent satisfaction which played on his young face. It reminded her of another man, so many decades in a past that still wounded. She must have betrayed something to Chekov.

"I've never seen a Vulcan smile before," he said.

Her mouth formed a thin line.

"And you still have not."

Chekov knew better than to push the point. And anyway, he had more pressing curiosities.

"Can you tell me eh'bout the others?" he asked politely. "Commander Reed, Commander Tucker?"

"Commander Reed was a man of rather concrete sentiment and integrity. And I suppose the same could be said of Commander Tucker. Though, of the two, Mr. Tucker was the more curious and impulsive," she noted indulgently, "attributes which humans seem to cherish in their historic figures."

Chekov grinned again, clearly satisfied to hear his childhood heroes spoken of so reverently by a woman who couldn't lie.

"I wish – "

The boy never finished the thought.

Outside the window, from the depths of oblivion, a swirling mass of blue-gray matter seemed to tear at the space aft of the ship. A moment later, as his eyes bore into it – T'Pol's much the same beside him – his communicator chirped.

"Ensign Chekov," a dull voice uttered.

He flipped it open.

"Chekov here."

"Report to the Bridge immediately."

Smiling grimly, the boy stood.

"Forgive me, Ambassador. I appreciated your company."

She only nodded, leaving him to his duty.

* * * * *

Kirk stared at the view screen apprehensively, blue eyes solemn.

The anomaly was a labyrinthine mess of gases and folded space – at least, to the naked eye, that seemed the proper descriptor – and as the young captain observed the various hues, blue-gray at first but now shifting through the known spectrum with a sort of bombastic grace, he ran a hand through his short crop of hair, glancing behind him.

"Spock, care to assess?"

The Vulcan was hunched over his blue-hued viewer at the science station.

"I can't be certain."

"Best guess then," Kirk replied.

Spock erected himself, stepping away from the sleek, shimmering console and coming to stand to the captain's left. He tilted his head just slightly, as if to gain a new perspective.

"My readings would seem to indicate that it is a disruption in space-time."

"A disruption?" Sulu puzzled.

"More specifically, a tear in its fabric."

"Great," Kirk said casually, glancing to the turbo lift as it emptied Chekov on to the Bridge. "How about you, kid? Wha'do you make of this?"

The young Russian crossed the distance between he and his post in short order, slipping into his seat as a crewman whose named eluded him vacated. He took a moment to study the anomaly visually, then worked at his console to take some sensor readings.

"Sir, this is unlike anything I've seen," he said finally. "I'm reading a hole in space-time. But it… appears to have a mass."

Kirk restlessly reoccupied his chair.

"Uhura, are you reading any Klingon transmissions in the area?"

The young linguist, hair tied up in a high, tight ponytail, shook her head in the negative, wearing a slight frown.

"No, sir. I'm not picking up transmissions of any kind."

Kirk swiveled in his chair, away from the screen, and he turned his attention to a young ensign manning the engineering station.

"Timlin, anything strange with the ship's – "

"Keptin!"

Kirk swiveled back around at Chekov's voice, watching as the singularity began to spasm, in much the same way as a man's appendix might in the instant before it burst. He shot out of his chair again, stepping forward.

"What's happening?"

"There is a ship emerging from the anomaly!" Chekov said. "It appears – "

Time and space are fickle things, so easily manipulated by accidents and fate and the randomness of an infinite universe. The Bridge of the Enterprise and its many occupants underwent in an instant the most thorough metamorphosis such forces could conjure.

Whereas before, the Bridge had been sleek and bright, with clear white glass and a sense of wide-eyed openness, it appeared now dark and dreary, with dull, closed spaces that hinted not at a mission of peace, but at one of craven strife.

Kirk's uniform, gold previously, was now black, and his sleeves were rolled up to the elbows, like he lived with the expectation that conflict was always imminent. His crew experienced a similar change. Uhura's uniform, a bright, rich red in the preceding instant, was now a dark maroon, her hair no longer tied, but cut shorter. And each officer wore a black belt, with a holstered phaser.

The captain glanced to the back of the Bridge, where Chekov now occupied the science station.

" – to be a federation wessel," the Russian concluded.

Kirk looked back at the view screen, squinting his eyes as the battered starship emerged into open space.

"Identify, Lieutenant," he demanded.

Chekov looked through the blue-hued viewer, evidently reading the registry straight off of the ship's hull.

"NX… 01. USS…" He paused, frowning, and then he pulled his head up to meet the captain's impatient gaze. "… Enterprise."

For a moment, Kirk simply stared back at him. Then, with tired eyes that held not the faintest spark, he watched the ghost of his vessel's past limp away from the vortex.


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N:** Thanks to all who offered feedback for the first chapter. If you're following this story, I always appreciate hearing from you -- about the positives, negatives, points of confusion, suggestions -- in the form of a review.

Hope you enjoy this installment.

_

* * *

__Military Log, Combat Date 2260.85: While traveling to our rendezvous point with the Klingons and Andorians, the Enterprise has discovered what can only be described as an echo of its own history: the NX-01, Earth's first deep space battleship._

"Scans confirm, Keptin," Chekov reported. "Engines, hull, and design are all consistent with an Earth ship from the mid-2150s."

Sulu frowned.

"But how can that be? The NX-01 was destroyed with all hands more than a hundred years ago."

Beside him, Lt. Galloway – weapons officer – shook his head.

"Presumed destroyed," he corrected. "Enterprise was last seen fighting Romulan ships above Cheron."

"Our defeat there ended the first war," Chekov added. "There were rumors that Enterprise survived the battle, and that its remaining crew was taken prisoner. But terms of the cease-fire were that no Earth ship enter that space again."

Kirk walked the length of the Bridge in deliberate strides, feeling the weight of something on his back. He glanced at Chekov.

"The question is: has it been adrift for all these years, or has it traveled through time?"

"It's pussible, Keptin. The phenomenon does appear to be a temporal rift, pussibly formed from superstring material."

"Explain."

"If a high-energy reaction occurred in the presence of dense quantum materials – superstring – it could feasibly create a 'Kerr loop,' leading to a rift like this one. But it appears highly unstable. It could collapse at any time."

Lt. Galloway spoke up from his station.

"Sir, I'm getting some clearer sensor readings now."

Kirk crossed the Bridge to look over the officer's shoulder.

"Heavy damage to its nacelles. Warp drive inoperable. Hull plating is – " Galloway paused, hands flying over the controls faster. "Life signs, sir! They're sporadic. It looks like they've taken heavy casualties, but there's definitely some alive."

"Shall I have Dr. McCoy assemble a medical team?" Uhura asked.

Kirk stared at Galloway's read-outs a moment longer, then stepped back and paced again. His crew followed his movements anxiously, clearly more urgent than he was. Kirk took a breath, and though he seemed troubled to do it, shook his head.

"No."

"Captain," Sulu argued vigorously, "with all due respect, wherever they came from, they need our help. We can't ignore them."

Kirk retook his seat, looking suitably grim.

"Soldier, if you think I come to that decision lightly, you're wrong. We're dealing with variables we can't possibly comprehend. Any contact with that ship could alter the flow of our history."

The silence which followed was tense. Whatever wisdom his words may have possessed was lost on his crew. They respected chain of command – one had to if they were to survive the tides of war – but they weren't so acquiescent as to assume their captain's rightness regardless of their own convictions.

Galloway's console began to beep fervently.

"Sir, the NX-01 is sending out a distress call."

"Put it through," Kirk said.

The message was staticy, garbled at the beginning, but it cleared up after a moment.

" – _Archer of the Enterprise. To any Earth, Vulcan, Andorian, or Tellarite ship, our fleet has engaged the Romulans and requires immediate assistance. We've lost power to our warp drive and shields, and life support is failing. Say again: immediate assistance is required."_

Another silence. This one tenser than the last. The dim lighting half-hid Uhura's and Chekov's faces from him, but he didn't need his eyes to see their expressions. And as long as he'd worked to leave behind the weakness that compassion represented, it was a thing beyond him to purge it entirely.

Kirk stood decisively, making a turn toward the turbo lift.

"Chekov, you have the conn. Have Dr. McCoy and Mr. Scott meet me in the transporter room. Uhura, with me. I'll need you to turn off that distress signal, before it attracts attention."

She stood to follow him.

"Shall I alert Keptin Archer, sir?" Chekov asked.

The turbo lift doors parted, and Kirk and Uhura stepped on.

"Tell them we're from Starfleet. No mention of name or date."

* * * * *

Travis Mayweather's corpse was sprawled over the navigation console, face an intermixing maze of severe burns and jagged lacerations. It would have been difficult to tell if he'd suffered in death, or if the mortal injuries, mercifully, had been incurred in short order.

To one side of the Bridge lay Hoshi Sato, her impeccable skin largely unmarred by the devastation which had befallen Enterprise. She was still, her breathing ragged, but to the naked eye there were no signs that she was harmed.

To the other side was T'Pol. She'd not been so lucky as the linguist. Her uniform was in relative tatters, body peppered with the sorts of burns and lacerations that had been Mayweather's undoing. But she was alive – a miracle of her physiology perhaps, or one of the cosmic variety – her breaths shallow, but steady as she lay unconscious.

At the center of the Bridge, Jonathan Archer occupied his captain's chair, though he was slunk down in it in a pained posture, an arm protectively covering his midsection. One long cut made its way from his hairline to his temple, but there were no other wounds externally discernable.

The Bridge itself was in near-ruin. Ceiling panels littered the deck, wires hanging down from above. A few of the secondary stations had been destroyed, consoles and chairs alike. The tactical station was hidden behind a wall of debris.

Kirk, McCoy, Uhura, and Scott reanimated in the back of the Bridge.

As soon as they'd fully materialized, each switched on a small square flashlight. Kirk gestured to the communications console, and Uhura instantly complied. Scott proceeded toward the engineering station, only to find it destroyed. With a sigh, he instead approached the console covered by Mayweather's body.

Kirk and McCoy were immediately on either side of Archer, who glanced up at them through pained, bleary eyes.

"Starfleet?" he wheezed hopefully.

"I'm Captain James T. Kirk of the – " The young leader paused. " – of an Earth starship. We heard your distress call."

Archer shifted in his seat, as McCoy began to scan him.

"I was told there weren't…" Archer trailed off with a grunt, squeezing his eyes shut before continuing, "… any Earth ships within three days' travel. How did you get here so quick?"

"That's not important right now."

"And your uniforms," Archer murmured hoarsely. "I've never seen anything like them on _any_ ship…"

A horrific coughing fit overcame him, as he slid further down in his seat, face all crevices and lines as he fought to gather himself. McCoy glanced at his friend grimly.

"Jim, this man's in no condition to give a report. I have to get him back to the ship."

Kirk nodded his understanding, then regarded Archer again.

"Captain, Enterprise is in good hands. I have engineering and medical teams aboard to tend to the ship and its crew. But right now, we need to get you to our sickbay for immediate attention."

Archer didn't respond at first, or even indicate that he'd heard the man. He glanced forward, watching as Scott gently pulled Mayweather's body off of the navigation console and laid it on the deck. It was all so damn futile, he thought.

He finally looked back at his addresser.

"All right," he said, voice all gravel now. "Coordinate with Trip and Phlox."

Kirk was a student of history, and the names were immediately recognizable. He nodded reassuringly and patted his counterpart on the arm, then took a step back, as McCoy flipped open his communicator.

"McCoy to Enterprise. Two to beam back."

The doctor and Archer disappeared in a stream of light.

"Captain, I've managed to cancel the distress signal," Uhura told him.

Kirk glanced over with a pleased nod, watching as the linguist knelt down beside Sato. He was beside them a moment later, helping his officer to lift the frazzled woman into a sitting position, leaning her against the wall.

He took her face in his hands, looking for any sign of injury. She appeared unharmed.

"Are you all right?" he asked.

Sato's eyes swam for a time, then finally focused on the man who'd spoken. Uhura's flashlight nearly blinded her, but the light it cast over Kirk gave him an angelic quality in line with his mission of mercy.

"I'm Captain James Kirk of Starfleet. We're here to help you."

She wiped at some of the soot on her face. Kirk gently removed her hands and did it for her. She smiled weakly.

"Lieutenant Hoshi Sato."

Sensing that he had things in hand, Uhura stood and crossed over to the other side of the Bridge.

Kirk nodded softly. Sato had the comportment of a wounded cat, the sort who wanted to trust you, but was wary to do so. And for reasons beyond his understanding, he bore as he looked on her the burning need to see that she was cared for.

"Are you hurt? Do you need medical attention?"

She shook her head, glancing over his shoulder to find Mayweather's body, looking into his vacant eyes and shuddering, tears welling up in hers. Kirk followed her eyes, then adjusted his own body to block her line of sight.

"Sit tight, Hoshi. We're going to get you taken care of, okay?"

Sato nodded meekly, shutting her eyes, a tear escaping from each of them. Kirk lingered a moment longer, resisting the urge to wipe them away, before Uhura called out to him again.

"Captain."

Once more, he crossed the Bridge to join her. She was kneeling over the body of T'Pol, and looked up at him solemnly.

"She's alive, but badly wounded. She needs a medic."

The young captain reached for his communicator, but paused as he took in her pointed ears. His expression turned stoic as he regarded her. She was from another time, when things were so very different. But that didn't change what she was.

Uhura bristled at his hesitation.

"Sir?"

Kirk took another moment to look her over, feeling disgust in his stomach, before finally flipping his communicator open.

"Kirk to Dr. Swanson."

"Swanson here."

"Have you found sickbay yet?"

"Yes, sir. But it's not much use. It's been virtually destroyed. Most of the staff is dead."

"Dr. Phlox?"

"I'm afraid not," the voice replied.

Kirk paused, using his free hand to scrub his face. It shouldn't have surprised him.

"Understood," he said. "Send Hopkins up to the Bridge. There's a Romulan in need of medical attention."

This time, the pause was on the other end.

"Did you say Romulan, sir?"

"Vulcan, if we're going to be technical," Kirk quipped sardonically. "Just tell him to get his ass up here."

"Aye, sir. Swanson out."

Uhura, still crouched over the woman's limp body, glanced up at her superior again, eyes abrasive, her voice scathing when she spoke.

"They were our friends in her time, Captain. She doesn't deserve our distrust."

"Lieutenant, in case you forgot, the Romulans hardly conquered Vulcan – they annexed it. In a planetary takeover, masses _die_. You know how many casualties there were in that transition?" He paused for effect, eyes cold. "Five thousand. Five thousand out of a population of six billion."

Uhura looked away.

"There's no such thing as a Vulcan," Kirk said without irony. "You remember that."

His words meant nothing to her in any real sense. She still thought him entirely unreasonable on the point. But she felt humbled just the same, and only nodded. There wasn't much else to be said.

Kirk joined Scott at the navigation station.

"How's it look?"

"It's pretty bad, sir," the engineer replied, looking at some readings on his tricorder, which was plugged into a console port. "Life support's abou' t'go on several decks."

"Scotty, if you can't stabilize it, we're going to have to evacuate the ship."

His friend smiled slightly.

"Aye. Don't worry, sir. She'll stabilize. But I need to get down to engineering."

Kirk nodded, moving out of the way as Scott unplugged the tricorder and slipped it back into his metal carrying kit, which he held under one arm as he headed toward the turbo lift.

The captain reached for his communicator, intending to apprise Chekov of the situation, but before he could do so, he heard Uhura's urgent voice for a third time.

"Sir!"

He turned at the sound of metal scraping metal, and spied Uhura standing by the smothered tactical station. The debris was moving and shaking, but she wasn't the culprit, hands loose at her sides.

In a flash, he was beside her, and he leaned down, frantically tossing debris aside. His efforts were reciprocated from underneath, until finally a human hand reached through a gap in the metal.

When Kirk dislodged the last piece, he was pleased to look into the eyes of a haggard man with Lieutenant Commander's pips, who though panting and scratched up, looked none the worse for wear. The young captain offered his hand, which the man gladly to took, and hauled him up. Kirk and Uhura both grabbed an arm to steady him.

"I'm Captain James Kirk."

"Lieutenant Commander Reed," the man replied tiredly. "Tactical."

* * * * *

Sulu studied a text read-out on his console. Then, with a sullen expression, he glanced back at Chekov, who occupied the captain's chair.

"Sir, word coming in from a Coalition listening post: Romulan warships headed toward this sector."

Chekov took a long, deep breath, before nodding.

"Understood."


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N:** Many thanks to everyone who reviewed the last chapter. Thanks to those, also, who alerted or favorited the story, but as always, I'd appreciate feedback as well -- positive, negative, or otherwise. So, if you're following this story, I'd love it if you'd leave me a review and let me know what you think.

Something to keep in mind for those of you who aren't necessarily well-versed in Trek history: the first "Earth-Romulan War" was fought more than one hundred years before Kirk's gang came on the scene, but there was never any visual communication between them. As a result, humans and Romulans never physically saw one another before the time of Kirk.

* * *

Scott shielded his face from the mist of liquid nitrogen whining shrill from a mess of pipes overhead. This place wasn't much to look at, but like baseball cards and leather-bound books, it elicited a measure of nostalgia.

He thought about what it might have been like to be an engineer on Earth's first deep space ship, when stretches of the galactic expanse he now took for granted were dangerous and alluring mysteries awaiting the bold and brave, and though he longed for the chance to ask of the NX-01's crew what it was to live through those early days, the bodies littered about seemed to imply that the chance would be denied him.

A sudden burst of light stung his eyes from an angle, and he raised a hand to block the offensive stream, squinting as he followed it to its source.

Uhura lowered her flashlight, smiling apologetically.

"What are ye doin' down here, lass?" he asked sharply.

"The medics have their hands full on the upper level," she said. "The Captain wanted me down here in case we find survivors."

Scott appeared a bit incredulous.

"Oh? He wants his linguist playing Operation, does he?"

"I have Level Four field training," she replied evenly. "Unless _you'd_ care to suture the mangled skin of everyone you find."

Scott met her eyes a moment, not looking contrite exactly, but at least something approaching it, his own eyes softer than they were in the previous instant. He sighed.

"Just stay outta m'way," he said mildly.

* * * * *

When the white shroud lifted, Kirk found himself in his own transporter room – Kyle at the controls, and Chekov beside him. He stepped down off the platform to meet his science officer.

"Report, Lieutenant."

"Coalition posts report Romulan vessels heading toward this sector," Chekov said. "Estimated time of arrival is twenty-five hours."

Kirk twisted his mouth grimly, glancing away, then back at his officer.

"Did you inform the fleet we'll be tardy?"

"Yes, sir. The Klingons and Andorians replied their understanding."

Kirk nodded.

"Good. I don't want to keep them waiting," he said, "but I'd like to salvage the NX if we can. Starfleet could use another ship. Even if she is old."

"I agree, sir. What is its condition?"

Kirk smiled confidently.

"She took a hell of a beating, but Scotty will make it work. Keep in touch with him from the Bridge. I'll be in Sickbay."

Chekov nodded his acknowledgment, and the two departed the company of Ensign Kyle, leaving the transporter room and proceeding in separate directions down the same corridor.

* * * * *

Archer peered about Sickbay, mind and eyes blurred by concussion. He fought to make distinctions amongst an amalgam of voices, but they ambled past him undecoded, even as he strained to his rattled brain's limits. He could make out the familiar uniforms of some of his fellow patients, but identifying the officers who wore them was a thing too far.

McCoy watched from across the room, another patient's chart loose in his grasp. How unnatural Archer looked inhabiting this world – this hero of men forgotten in the dark of an ever-dimming history, only to turn up in its last futile pages.

The doctor glanced to the entrance, as Kirk strode in purposefully. McCoy moved to intercept him.

"Jim…"

Kirk stopped, surveying the mess of humanity. McCoy followed his eyes.

"The crew compliment was 270," he said, crossing his arms. "We've got twenty in here – about five critical. There's another thirty so far being seen to on the other ship."

The captain nodded detachedly. He'd learned not to let numbers bother him the way faces did.

"Fifty survivors," he concluded.

"Given the firefight these kids have been going on about, I'm surprised it's _that_ high."

Kirk furrowed his brow.

"What did they tell you?" he asked.

"Actually, I have a patient who's rather anxious to fill you in personally," McCoy said, gesturing across sickbay to another captain, the faintest hint of humor in his voice. "He's got some questions of his own too."

Kirk smiled slightly.

"Yes, I imagine he does."

"How much do you plan on telling him?"

A fleeting uncertainty wisped across Kirk's face, adding a year to it, before he purged for bravado's cause any appearance of ambivalence. McCoy thought it a sad display, but as Kirk's went, it was forgettable. He tracked the captain's lithe body as it trudged toward Archer.

* * * * *

Scott shined his light across the catwalk, flicking past a mutilated corpse hanging over the railing. An eerie quiet persisted, punctuated intermittently by the engineer's heavy steps. Two of his men, Olson and Tomkin, followed close behind, Uhura lagging in the back.

The young linguist turned her light on the near staircase, peering down at the warp core and the array of consoles which surrounded it, and at debris from what had once been a catwalk adjacent to the one on which she now stood.

Scott glanced over the railing to the ground level lit by Uhura.

"You two, ge' down there an' stabilize life support. Burn through the battery back-ups if ye have to."

Olson and Tomkin complied, side-stepping Uhura and descending the staircase. That left her alone with Scott, and she moved to stand beside him, their respective beams of light intersecting as they surveyed each damaged nook of what was to them a primitive engine room.

"Hard t'believe this scrap a'bolts didn't fly apart every time they hit warp speed," he said.

She smiled slightly, placating him probably, but said nothing. He glanced at her profile, smooth and soft against the ragged metal she stood upon, and thought, not for the first time, that she had a lovely way about her.

Scott saw his men begin their work down below, and allowed himself a final moment to be humbled the history before him. He was spoiled by _his_ Enterprise – by her perfection and technical intricacies. To take a design as crude as this one and make it a viable warship would require a degree of mastery and innovation he felt truly bankrupt of.

"All righ' then," he said finally. "I'm gonna go have a look at tha' warp core. Can't have it go breachin' on us."

Uhura nodded mutely as he departed her company.

In the matters after that, she stood and watched as the engineers plied their trade. She supposed there was something she could have been doing to be of the meagerest assistance, but suffered too heartily from a malaise, brought on by the grim realization that there were no more survivors to be found. All the living were well accounted for, and the dead had time to wait.

A clatter at the end of the catwalk ripped her from that reverie.

She whipped her head to look for the source, light shining in the direction of the sound, but finding nothing.

"Mr. Scott!" she shouted.

"Aye!" he called back, leaving behind his work and dashing for the staircase. "I heard it too!"

On instinct more than anything, he drew his phaser when he reached the top. She glanced down at her own weapon, and seemed to consider whether to draw it, before finally letting her hand go limp at her side.

She followed his lead as he stomped across the catwalk – rather recklessly, she thought, if he truly supposed a danger. Near the end, he shined his light along the wall, and was surprised to see a small door, so close to the color of the metal on either side that it had been camouflaged to him from a distance.

Their eyes met for a moment, before Scott stepped back, training his phaser and gesturing to the door.

Uhura glanced at his weapon, hoping he didn't intend to vaporize a survivor. She trusted him, though, to be steady in such matters, and so complied, triggering the door, then taking a step back as it opened with a hiss.

Scott immediately recognized the room as the engineer's office.

On the floor lay two officers, one a woman and one a man. Her eyes were frozen in a haunted stare, looking up at the ceiling with a pernicious emptiness familiar to both he and Uhura.

Beside her lay a battered, but very much alive, man somewhere in his thirties. He was stained with dried blood and sucking in heaving breaths, but he had two arms and two legs, and though his face was peppered with cuts and bruises, they were the sort that would fade with time, not linger to remind him of some long and awful moment.

Uhura knelt down beside him, lending her assistance as he weakly braced his hands against the ground. She was slim and not in possession of any particular strength, but her will was enough for the task, and she let him lean against her once he sat up.

Behind all the blood and grime, he was a handsome man, strong features with a head of dark blonde hair. He seemed dazed, but was lucid enough to glance down at his crewmate, and by his reaction Uhura surmised that he was only then learning of her fate, and when he quickly turned his eyes away, she saw in them a vulnerability almost animal in its depths.

"Are you all right?" Uhura asked, loosely grasping his neck, turning his head so that she could check his pupils.

Scott holstered his phaser and stood in the doorway.

"We're here t'help, lad."

The man blinked, seeming to process the words on a delay. He took a shaky breath, but nodded.

"I'm Commander Scott; that's Uhura. We heard your distress call. We're with Starfleet."

Glancing back at Uhura, the man was greeted with a warm, encouraging smile. He mustered one of his own, or at least the best facsimile circumstance allowed him.

"Trip Tucker," he said hoarsely.

Scott froze at the name, mouth agape, half-smiling. Tucker stared back curiously, forehead crinkled at the center.

"Holy shit," Scott mumbled.

* * * * *

Archer rolled his head, glancing up hazily at the face of a man he dimly recalled. The man looked back with something of a gentle smirk, though it did little to quell the grimness in his eyes.

"… Kirk, right?" the elder of them mumbled.

His counterpart nodded.

"Jonathan Archer. How's my ship?"

"Support systems have been restored," Kirk assured him. "We're continuing repairs."

Archer nodded, closing his eyes a moment, the slightest efforts – speech included – seeming to overcome him. He was a measure steadier when he looked up again, face creased in confusion.

"Where did you come from? We weren't reading any other ships in this system, friendly or otherwise. And Starfleet said there was no help within three days of us."

Kirk hesitated, glancing away, and by chance his eyes fell on T'Pol, unconscious two beds away. The sight of her hardened him when he looked back at Archer.

"What's the last thing you remember?" he asked.

If the elder captain picked up on Kirk's change, he didn't show it. He simply looked past him, deeply focused.

"We were battling the Romulans. The Vulcan ships were both destroyed. One of the Andorians' was going critical. You must have seen _them_ out here too, right?"

Kirk didn't reply, running a hand through his hair with a soft sigh.

"But you didn't," Archer concluded, face twisted in an incredulous grimace. "Or the Romulans for that matter. What happened to them? Why was Enterprise the only ship to find?"

"Captain, I'm not sure you're going to like what I have to tell you."

Archer chuckled humorlessly, before a fit of gasping and coughing overtook him. McCoy observed as much from across Sickbay and took off toward them. But Kirk held up a hand and shook his head, halting him. The doctor shook his own, as if to defy his friend, but the resolve of the captain proved overwhelming, and McCoy obeyed, tending to another patient instead.

When Archer recovered, he wearily declared, "I'm going to have to insist that you tell me what the hell is going on here."

Kirk smiled a little at his tone, but resigned himself to the truth. He grabbed a nearby stool, setting himself down beside the injured party.

"Captain," he began solemnly, "you are aboard the USS Enterprise. NCC-1701."

Archer blinked, looking away as Kirk continued.

"You've traveled a hundred years into the future. Give or take a decade."

There was a silence, as tense as it was long, and Kirk couldn't quite figure what to do with his eyes or with what emotion he was obliged to fill them. Archer took a hearty gulp of air, then spat it back out. He looked remarkably calm, all things considered.

"Does my crew know?" he asked.

Kirk shook his head tentatively.

"No. If you want, I can see that they're informed."

"Why _wouldn't_ they be?"

"I'm concerned," Kirk said, "that if you return to your own time with knowledge of the future – "

"_Return_?" Archer interjected, shaking his head. "If we return, we'll be destroyed. We were outnumbered and outgunned. It was only a matter of time."

Kirk glanced down, then nodded diplomatically, offering a slight, disarming smile, leaving that matter for later discussion.

"Do you have any idea how this happened?"

"We were… exchanging weapons fire. Their atomic torpedoes depolarized our hull completely. There was a…" He paused, thinking hard. "A bright flash of light, and then… then we were here. Wherever here is."

Kirk could tell that the act of remembering strained the captain, so he tried to be brief in his exposition, lest McCoy lecture him on overtaxing a patient.

"It's possible the energy from that weapons exchange created the temporal rift your ship passed through," Kirk explained. "History records that your Enterprise was destroyed in that battle."

Archer brought a clumsy hand to scrub his face. Destroyed. Did that make him a ghost? It made him a failure, if nothing else.

"What happened then? I mean, obviously things turned out okay. You're here. Starfleet's still around."

Kirk admired his optimism, and logically, it was a reasonable estimation. But he watched Archer's expression darken when he saw the phaser on his hip.

"I wish I could say things went a little better," Kirk said, blue eyes stormy. "That battle ended the first Romulan War. We made considerable concessions in the peace accords. Handed them dozens of colonies, and agreed never to seek the repatriation of our prisoners."

The look in Archer's eyes was more heartbreaking than Kirk was prepared for. He experienced a moment of indecision, wondering if he should stop there. But Archer could endure it, he thought, and the man deserved to hear the truth.

"Things went to hell in the decades after that. The Tellarites were exterminated. The _Vulcans_ – " He said their name with such distaste. " – joined the Empire – "

"Wait. What? The Vulcans?"

"With hardly a drop of blood," Kirk growled. "We should have figured, considering they're cousins."

Archer was beyond confusion. This was a different thing entirely, cobbled out of spurs from his soul and from his bones. Kirk pitied him.

"Didn't you know? They're descendents of the same race," he said. "And when the going got tough for the Coalition of Planets, the Vulcans folded. The race was reunified, under the umbrella of the Romulan Empire."

"They wouldn't do that," Archer argued weakly.

"Captain, I'm afraid something you'll find here, is that anyone is capable of anything. Even the ones you thought you could trust."

He punctuated the statement with a glance at T'Pol. It wasn't lost on Archer. Ordinarily, he would have defended her honor, but he was too shell-shocked to form any utterance.

Kirk didn't belabor the point anyway. In his next words, there was not the bitterness or condemnation which lathered the previous ones, only a dignified resignation and a sympathetic despair.

"It's regrettable you weren't successful in that battle. A victory at Cheron might have won that war, and saved us a second one that's lasted thirty-one years."

Archer looked away again, and he couldn't suppress the despondent shudder which pulsed along his skin. How familiar and sad was the tragic song which in his veins conducted blood.


End file.
